


and other stories

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Co-workers, Fluff, why are these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 21:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: ford works in a bookstore. coincidentally, so do you.(word of warning: this fic is from 2015 and unedited!)





	and other stories

The smell of old books is one written about in infinite poems and novels, the feeling of nostalgia and of the passage of time overwhelming in the pungent air that surrounds a tome covered in dust and memories.

You’re more concerned about throwing out your shoulder trying to put all the copies of Lord Of The Rings on the right shelf, which is just two or three inches too tall for you. Seriously, those books weren’t big, but in the twenty year anniversary box sets they were like boulders.

On your tiptoes on a stepladder, you manage to push the two box sets onto the shelf, your arms aching. Why you’ve decided to work at this bookstore for the summer, you aren’t too sure; maybe you hoped you’d just be sitting around reading, which you would be happy doing, instead of all the hard labor and cleaning up coffee cups. At least you aren’t actually making coffee, which looks more difficult than deciphering the codes on the backs of books to put them on the right shelves.

At least you aren’t alone in that regard. Your coworker, Stanford Pines, is working here over the summer, too. He’s about to be a sophomore in college, like you, so you have that much in common. Other than that, you never really understand how he manages to remember all of that physics stuff you could never understand. You’d already forgotten if you had breakfast that morning or not. Stanford could babble on to customers about all sorts of stuff whenever he was on cashier duty, pushing his thick glasses up his nose with a shy and endearing smile that won plenty of female customers over.

And no, you hadn’t just dropped a book because you were staring at him while he’s talking to a man about the theory of something or other. Pssh. Butterfingers again.

You duck and pick up the book, quickly turning around to put it on the shelf. Stanford had paused, but he didn’t ask any questions, thankfully. Tucking your hair out of your face, you catch his eye while he puts the book into a bag and he smiles at you, his lopsided grin making you mirror him, albeit your face feeling much redder than before. He says goodbye to the customer and picks up a stack of books (a few Kurt Vonnegut novels a little woman with a sharp red bob had donated) to put away, and you look up to find yourself in front of a line of informational books by Bill… Vincent. Great.

Stanford’s at your side within seconds and the two of you file books away in silence, your nervous humming filling the gap until you find your row of books collides into his, and you look up to see that both of you were frozen in motion, your eyes meeting his dark brown ones.

“Have— Have you read that one?” Stanford eventually asks, nodding at the book in your hand. You read the title and press your lips together, trying not to laugh.

“Turtles and Where To Find Them?”

The tips of his ears go pink, along with the rest of his face, and you start giggling, covering your mouth pushing more of Bill Vincent’s turtle books aside so the last two will fit together. “I’m afraid I’ve not had the chance to. Would you recommend it?”

Stanford gets the joke and plays along, taking the book from you (his hand brushes by yours and the smile on your face feels more forced) and squinting at the cover studiously.

“Ah, yes, it’s a wonderful read!” He flips through the pages and lands on one spread about snapping turtles, adjusting his glasses. “"Large freshwater turtles, these creatures are only found in North America, so watch your toes when you go swimming!” Truly spectacular stuff.”

You roll your eyes and snatch the book back, making a point of closing it with a loud snap before putting it on the shelf next to Cat’s Cradle.

“You could say it’s… Turtle-lating.” You turn to Stanford and waggle your brows, and he smacks a palm to his forehead with an exaggerated groan of disgust. Squinting at his hand, you count the digits with wide eyes; he realizes too slowly and you grab his wrist before he can hide it, spreading his hand out across yours.

“It’s a birth defect,” he mumbles, and you glance up at him. He’s cherry red, his other hand at the back of his neck. “We still don’t really know what caused it, or how, or—“

“You’re a polydactyl.” Your reply overruns his and he stutters in surprise.

“You know the word?”

“Ernest Hemingway,” you explain, studying his fingers. “He bred cats with six toes. His house was turned into a museum and a cat home, where the offspring of his original polydactyl cats live now, and you can go visit.“

Stanford looks thoroughly perplexed and you wonder with a panic if you’d upset him, but he leans closer to you in intrigue.

“Really? That’s… That’s incredible! I knew I wasn’t the only one, but it’s in cats, too? Wow.” He beams at you, eyes wide with excitement. “Where is the house?”

“Key West, Florida,” you answer, and you both deflate. “A bit far away, huh?”

“Just a little.” Stanford looks down and notices you’d threaded your fingers through his subconsciously, which you quickly wriggle out of his and busy with getting more books.

“But, uh, I thought that was interesting,” you conclude, and the conversation ends after that.

The next day you find Stanford talking to one of the baristas at the coffee stand, and when the bell clinks as you shut the door, you see from the corner of your eye as he turns, does a double take, and flips back around again, the redheaded woman at the stand laughing when he nearly knocks over an elaborate plastic tumblers display. You smile to yourself, dumping your bag behind the desk and taking the newly donated box of books to be replaced.

Stanford doesn’t talk to you for hours as the two of you work, but your boss made your breaks coincide and as you sit down with a cup of coffee from the stand, he pulls the chair out across from you.

“Can I?”

You nod, sipping at your drink as he sits, and he pulls out a book of his own. Tilting your head to the side, you read the spine, and Stanford grins at you knowingly.

“The Old Man and The Sea?”

“I researched Ernest Hemingway after what you told me last night, and I recognized one of his books from the American literature class I’m taking next semester,” he says, both hands cupped around his coffee cup. “We’re reading this one, apparently, so I figured I’d take a look.”

“It’s definitely an interesting one,” you say before you have another mouthful of your drink. “His last work of fiction before he died. It might seem really simple on the surface, when you first read it through, but it’s got this whole “iceberg theory” to it.”

“A what theory?”

The entire half hour of your breaks consists of you explaining Ernest Hemingway’s works to Stanford, who’s suddenly reminded of a scientist he admires, and he tells you a thing or two about evolution you’d never have thought about with polydactyl cats. Your boss strides by with five minutes left of your break and taps her watch, and you both flurry to finish your coffees and get back to work, but Stanford falters for a moment, a question obviously on his mind.

“Don’t you have children’s books to put away?” You ask jokingly, but Stanford stays silent, digging in his pocket and crumpling something up in his fist.

“I, um. I wanted to…” He stammers for a moment as you stare at him, confused, and eventually he takes your hand, turns it palm-up, and gives you a piece of paper. Written in his loopy handwriting is a slew of numbers and the word “Ford”, which you take to be a nickname of his.

“If you ever need help studying or— or want to hang out or something. That’s me. Well, my number. My house phone number. My brother might answer, so just ask for Ford and he’ll figure it out, as long as he’s not an idiot about it and tries something… Okay, I’ll be quiet now.”

You stare down at the ten numbers in front of you and smile, and Stanford— Ford, rather— nervously reciprocates.

“It’s not just for studying, right?”

Ford looks shocked at the very notion. “W-What?”

You laugh and pocket the paper, picking up a tower of Judy Blume books and passing it to him.

“I’ll call you to schedule a coffee “hang out” when we don’t have work.” You wink and Ford turns scarlet, nearly dropping the three copies of Tales Of A Fourth Grade Nothing at the top of the stack. “We can compare notes on Old Man and The Sea.”

Ford pushes his glasses up his nose, biting his lip.

“I—I’d like that.”


End file.
